


English Showers, American Sunshine

by Lunar_Iris



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: England is sneaky, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-16 09:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18688921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunar_Iris/pseuds/Lunar_Iris
Summary: England is sneaky and knows exactly what he's doing to get America's attention.





	English Showers, American Sunshine

Thunder rumbles. Lightning flashes. 

England halts mid-step on his way toward the lobby door, and watches as clouds loosen their torrents of rain.

“Uff!” The room jolts, but strong arms catch him by the waist and jerk him upright, and almost seem to offer him a hug.

“Awe man!” America grumbles. “Don't just stop in front of people! Geez, England.”

“Sorry, I was surprised by the rain is all.” He smooths the wrinkles in his suit.

“You, surprised by the rain?”

“Say it again all you want. I know how much it rains.”

“You said it, dude! Not me!” America looks down at his pinging mobile phone. “No way! Kiku cancelled on me. And my flight was grounded. This sucks!”

England rolls his eyes at the juvenile pouting of America's lips. So plump, chewed, but shiny. England would prefer they move in some other way besides speaking.

“Ah, America!” France walks up behind the American, circling his arm around his waist. “You should come visit me while you are here in Europe. The things we could do!”

“I had plans!” He continues to poke furiously at his smart-phone. “With Kiku and a video-game! This really sucks.”

“Oh, but think!” The slimy fingers caress an oil-slick down America's jaw. “We could get to Paris in time to watch the sunset from the Eiffel Tower.” France wraps his other arm around America's shoulders and holds him close.

England cannot understand why America would remain in the filthy lecher’s embrace, the way he flinches and grimaces. He huffs and sits on one of the lobby couches, staring in discontent at the rain.

America somehow slips free of France's suctiony-octo-grip when he looks back at them. 

Again, England looks away. The rain slackened, but continues teadily. The puddles grow larger. He might try to plead his case for America to stay, but he has nothing available to extol, but the rain. And himself. Could he ask America to go splashing through the puddles with him?

“We could have a lovely dinner at Jules Verne, and...”

England's eyes widened and abruptly realizes he should have just snatched America's hand and fled. France wasn't even offering the greatest eating establishment in Paris. But, far worse praying upon America's sentaments. Egads! That starry, far-away look in those sky-blue eyes. France won him over, playing dirty, with a name. Blue stares into blue.

Why would they be interested in stormy green?

“And we could retreat afterward to my little apartment in the city, and I could read you the works of Jules Verne.”

England sniffles. Involuntarily. It is a chill from a gust of wind that blew in from outside. That is all. Thunder rumbles again. The rain has increased once more. He flops back and lets his spine mold against the padded leather cushioning of the seat, resigned to his fate. He waits.

“Wouldn't you like that?” France shifts closer to the American's ear. Practically purring. The wretch.

“How are we even going to get there, dude. It's, like, pouring down rain outside!” There is doubt in that voice. A chance.

France glances down at his phone, flits his fingers across the screen, flashing it in American's direction. “It is not raining at all in Paris.”

“That sounds real nice and all.”

And, that would not do.

England bites his lip. Sniffles.

“But.”

“Journey to the Center of the Earth. From the Earth to the Moon. I have them all.”

Oh god. France just won't stop.

England turns back toward the windows again, his arms cross snug against his chest. He cannot continue to suffer through this unmitigated absurdity.

“Well...” America's voice tight even as he stretches the word.

England sniffles again and coughs away an itch in the back of his throat.

“England?” American's coaxes.

He will not look over. He will not acknowledge the ridiculous charade. “Do whatever you want.” He allows his voice to wobble.

“You okay?”

“It hardly matters.”

“Ack!” France scoffs. “Let England mope with his weather. Forget Paris! How about my French Riviera. Beautiful sun. Beautiful bodies. Warmth! Love!”

England blinks.

“England?”

He blinks again. One warm, heavy tear glistens in the corner of his eye, and slowly drizzles down his cheek.

“Nah, France.” America plops down next to England. “I'll just wait out the weather with England!”

“How? What?!” France squawks. “What of my...”

“Lemme get my stuff, 'kay?” America smiles at England. “Enjoy the beach, Francy-pants!”

England sighs again, and smiles at France.

“Why you little--” France growls.

His smile grows. He bats his eyes and flicks away the moisture on his cheek. “I said nothing. I was sat here waiting for the rain to slack.”

“Like hell, you fink.”

“And, look, it has. You should be off to catch your train.”

With a huff, France stomps across the lobby and shoulders open the glass door.

“Smooth, sweetheart.” America flops down and hugs him tight.

“Whatever do you mean, dearest? Surely you don't mean the buffoon?”

“No. You smooth operator,” he sings. “You did that on purpose.”

“I did nothing.” His smile widens.

“Like hell you didn't.”

“Well, were you considering taking France's invitation?”

“Were you really moping about the thought of me going with him?”

“What were your plans, then?”

“Would you really want France to know?”

England laughs, bright and silvery.

“Let’s get going before the rain starts back.”

“Yeah, I have other plans.” America wags his eye brows up and down.

“Oh,” England pauses mid-step.

“We could stomp through a few puddles?”

“I like that plan. And then?”

“Well,” America pauses as they walk out into the drizzle. “Maybe you could read to me.”

“I'd like that, too. Anything else?”

“We could do lots of things cozy inside on a rainy day.” He winks, runs toward the first puddle he can find.

Juvenile idiot.

But, England grins, running toward his retreating ray of sunshine and catches his hand. Neither one with an umbrella, they splash through as many puddles as they can on their way to England's home.

England can think of several things to do with America on a rainy day. 

First on the list: dry off.

**Author's Note:**

> I happened upon this file on my computer. I could have sworn that I posted this already. But, I cannot find it anywhere on any of my platforms. 
> 
> All comments are welcome. Let me know what you think.


End file.
